


Some Like it Hot

by followsrabbit



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:05:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followsrabbit/pseuds/followsrabbit
Summary: “Some like it hot” isn’t a lust spell.  Never has been.In lieu of anything else, Simon pounds his temple once more against the weathered headboard of his bed. So how in the name of Merlin did he manage to make it one?





	

Literal spells should come easier to him.  Do come easier, most always. They’re—Simon musses his curls against his headboard, a hard ache into his scalp—they’re the phrases he can get.  Like **some like it hot:** warmth, heat, straightforward.  (As long as he doesn’t set every wooden square inch of Watford alight, as long as Penelope is around to cool him down.)

“Snow,” Baz drawls from the bed beside his.  Except _drawl_ isn’t the right word, because Simon knows Baz’s drawl; there shouldn’t be so much tension starching it.  “When the Humdrum finally offs you, know that I will be sincerely praying he takes his time.  Praying. I will covet a religious God—one of the barmy ones who calls magic devilry and mages devil-worshippers—all for you.”

And – Simon can’t exactly blame him.  His stupid magic.  Stupid spell. Stupid Baz for being here when he went off.  Noise scratches his throat, mangled between a curse and a growl. Baz is right to despise him, for once.

 **“Some like it hot”** was supposed to warm the scone he smuggled from tea earlier, the one he planned to finish off between bits of Magical Words homework.  It was supposed to work just like it did for Penny. 

It shouldn’t have hardened his cock like a wet dream mangled with a nightmare and a Viagra ad. **“Some like it hot”** isn’t a lust spell.  Never has been.

In lieu of anything else, Simon pounds his temple once more against the weathered headboard of his bed. So how in the name of Merlin did he manage to make it one?

*

And Penny can’t save him this time, because he’s not about to go find her with his breath ragged, his eyes glazed, and his hand a tick away from damning his restraint and trousers to hell.

She’ll find his dead body in the next week or so, when she gets around to breaking into Mummers House again.  Not because his burning lust will kill him, no, but because Baz was sneering at him for chewing with his mouth open when he cast the spell.

Because apparently lust spells, intended or not, are somewhat contagious.

A long groan creaks from Baz’s bed.

Simon cringes. When Baz tries to murder him this time, he’ll deserve it.

*

They take turns in the shower; Baz mutters about the lack of hygiene of it all, Simon about Baz’s muttering.

At least the lack of warm water isn’t likely to pose a problem any time soon.  Cold showers have their merits.  

“We need to tell the Mage,” Simon says between wet wrinkles of his hair (best to keep his hands busy with something.) 

He doesn’t want to—it won’t be the first time that he’s made a mess of something so basic, but that isn’t exactly a comfort.  It just means he already knows the weight that will tug at the corners of the Mage’s mouth, hidden as they are beneath his mustache.  The hardness in his eyes.  But his skin is flushed, his limbs won’t stop twitching, he can’t stop looking at Baz, and they have to do something.

“Brilliant plan," Baz sneers, "And which of us do you suggest fetch him?” 

“Will you just—” Simon heaves a breath.

“Use your words, Snow. Or better yet, a gag.”

He thinks Baz might be staring at his lips—the way Baz stares at Agatha’s, between taunting glances towards Simon’s clenched fists.  He thinks he might be staring too much at Baz’s eyes.  Into Baz’s eyes.  A voice that sounds like Penny’s shrills in his head that there’s a difference.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend to take care of that—“ Baz’s lashes and chin nod past Simon’s hips “—for you, anyhow?”

And Simon knows that Baz is distracting him, baiting him, but: “I’m not going to infect Agatha.”  

He’s thought about this.  Or, rather, thought about how much he hasn’t thought about it.  Simon drags his lower lip between his teeth. Clenches his vision black. Bites. He wants something.  Someone. But Agatha, with her long golden hair and fair skin and pink lips, doesn’t feel right. They’ve never done more than kiss, and a botched spell isn’t the reason to change that.

_But shouldn’t he want to?_

“Maybe I’ll look for Wellbelove,” Baz murmurs Simon’s eyes open.  “Don’t need your precious Mage to know it’s the only way out of your mess.”

“Agatha wouldn’t touch –“ A jerk of his foot against his desk, in place of Baz’s kneecaps. A pause.  “How is seducing my girlfriend the only way out of this mess?”

 Raising a chiseled eyebrow to the first stunted question, Baz answers the second.  (He doesn’t need to say anything to the former. Every line of his face is taunting, _are you certain about that?_ )  “Lust spells.  They don’t outlast,” his lips twitch with something that might be awkwardness, might be amusement at Simon’s awkwardness, “consummation.” He can’t be sure. As well as Simon knows Baz, he hasn’t seen awkwardness often enough on him to name it.

“And you just happen to know this.”

“My aunt just happens to know this. I just happen to be around when she imbibes irresponsible quantities of gin.”

“And you didn’t say anything until now?”

Baz lips are all curled contempt.  “Doesn’t do either of us much good, does it?”

Simon turns around, pulls his shirt over his head, and heads straight for the shower. No. It doesn’t. 

 *

Taking himself in hand, Simon tilts his head under the shower nozzle and imagines long, pale fingers. Slender.  Fucking aristocratic.  (He tells himself they're Agatha’s, because whose else's would they be?)

But it's dark hair, not blonde, that tangles behind his closed eyelids, between moans and ice cold water.  ( _Why_ , Simon hasn’t a clue.)

* * *

  _Simon_.

Baz’s eyes are closed and his mind is foggy red and his fangs are going to fucking dissect his tongue if he doesn’t bite something soon.  Anything.  As soon as possible. As soon as right now. Because he’s high off of Snow’s ridiculous lust spell, harder than should be supernaturally possible, and can’t stop thinking about pinning his roommate to his mattress and devouring him whole. (Either mattress.)  (His current headspace is demanding and detailed, but not picky.)

He feels warmer than a vampire should.  Than a vampire can. Than he ever has. For the first time, lying flat and tense on his sheets, Baz understands words like ‘fever’ and ‘heatstroke’—he feels like his magic does, raging and burning and hungry.

And he can’t stop imagining Snow’s wrists trapped in his palms.

He can’t stop imagining Snow’s hips covered with his, Snow’s mouth covered with his, Snow covered with him.

Snow’s neck bared for him. Snow’s neck his. Snow his.

(His neck.)  (If he could reason right now, he’d be repulsed.)  (Perverse fucking vampire possessive instincts.) 

But, since he isn’t about to bite Snow any time soon, since Snow is still safely ensconced in the shower, he moves his hand down to his trousers.  To their zipper.  Beneath.

“Simon…”

He doesn’t know how many times he groans, only that he should have self-control enough to stop. He always has before. But he doesn’t this time, not until—

"You just said my name.”

_Crowley. Chomsky.  Fuck._

Hair still raining shower water onto his worn sleeves, sweatpants knotted sloppily at his waist, and Adam’s apple thick, Snow stares.  Won’t stop staring.  Stumbles out of the bathroom’s damp air, catches sight of him, and doesn’t move a breath. The towel he’d been dragging across his face thuds to the floorboards in a Watford-issued heap.

Quick and pale, Baz’s hand darts to his side and out of Simon’s wide-eyed, unblinking sight. “I live to curse your name, Snow,” he drawls (if drawls were breathless and hiccuped). “My life’s purpose will be fulfilled if I can turn Simon Snow into a profanity.”

“For what? Wanking?”

A sneer, because he can’t think of a response. For a moment, Baz can appreciate Snow’s preference for grunts and growls over human speech. His cheeks rage redder than he thought possible, red as every drop of blood he’s ever consumed, and he wonders if he could burst into flames from sheer humiliation alone. Death by embarrassed combustion—a first for the Pitch line, he’s sure.

Snow’s voice is dry as sandpaper: “You said my name.”

If Baz could bring himself to look away, he’d have missed the sudden clench of Snow’s jaw. The more sudden reach of his strides towards Baz’s bed – he’s going to kill him, Snow is going to go off and finally end him, Anathema be damned—and then—

Snow yanks his Watford t-shirt off with one tug of his fist, tosses it into a puddle on the floorboards, and makes a desert of Baz’s mouth.

“You said my name,” Simon says again.  Steps carrying him straight onto Baz’s bed, straight onto Baz, he doesn’t give him the chance to repeat it.

 *

_Simon Snow is going to kill me.  Shirtless._

 *

_Simon Snow is kissing me.  Shirtless._

 *

Baz still believes he might die of this.

* * *

 Simon doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Except—that’s fucking nonsense, because he knows that he has his tongue in his roommate’s mouth, his knees trapping his hips, and his fingers lost in his long hair.

He knows that Baz said his name.  Knows that the sight of Baz saying his name—his first name—with hooded eyes and bulging trousers unsettled him or unhinged him or both.  Or something. Knows that Baz’s skin is cool, cool, cool, and that he can’t touch enough of it.

That Baz still isn’t moving.

Nodding his chin against Baz’s, Simon drags his lips against his again.  Slender hands—white hands, violinist hands—clench on either side of his face, tugging his curls straight and his throat groaning. If not for the Anathema, Simon might think that Baz meant to push him away, might worry that he’s veering towards assault.

But, if the Anathema won’t let Simon hit Baz, it couldn’t allow for… that.

“Baz,” he pants a breath and the letters against the corner of his mouth.  “Tell me to stop.”

And part of him wants him to. Needs him to.  Because this is Baz Pitch, bane of his existence, and he relies on that; on the constancy of his evil widow’s peak and nefarious schemes. Simon doesn’t know what—his hips grinding against Baz’s, Baz’s scraping against his—this will do to the story. 

But he’s also hotter than he’s ever been without going off. And he’s never wanted to touch anyone or anything as much as he wants to keep Baz in his grip.  Under him.  Against him. It’s magic and madness, and Simon would probably scream if he overthought it, but—

“Baz…” he murmurs against the angle of his cheekbone. 

Thinking has never been his strong suit. Bullet-point lists of pros and cons are all Penelope.

In a sliver of a second, Baz’s hands are moving to grind crescents into Simon’s shoulder blades, his mouth is stealing every other half-formed word from Simon’s lips, and Simon forgets logic and Penny.

It’s just a spell.

“Simon.”

The grin that spreads across his lips could rival a coat hanger in width. 

* * *

 Fuck it.

Baz arches up from the bed to fit his chest against Snow’s. He kisses him like he’s always wanted to, with bleary greed and a sharp tongue. 

He wants to bite him.  Claim him. Make sure Wellbelove and the entire bloody world see his mark on Simon Snow’s neck. But Baz also knows that invading Russia in the dead of winter would make for a wiser plan than turning the Mage’s heir into a vampire, so he spears his mouth against the mole closest to him instead.

Scratching his nails deep into Snow’s back, echoing white lines against his already fair skin, Baz decides he’ll kiss every single one of his moles. Every freckle on his chest too. He’ll kiss every single inch of Simon Snow’s body, because it won’t matter.  Snow kissed him first; Snow cast the lust spell; Baz can act on whatever fantasy he likes and blame it all on Snow come morning.

Simon pulls his lower lip between his teeth, before snapping away to slide Baz’s shirt over his head.  Snapping against him once more.

“Say my name again.”

Baz knots their fingers together, their legs together, and uses his every football muscle to flip Snow beneath him.

 _Mine_.

“Make me,” he whispers against his throat, trying to taste the obscene production that is Simon Snow’s Adam’s apple without biting.

 *

“Snow.”

 *

“Snow.”

* 

“Simon…”

* * *

 Simon comes down to breakfast the next morning with dark circles under his eyes and a heavily scratched back hidden beneath his Watford uniform.  His body is Baz’s sketchbook, and he doesn’t know how to erase it all.

Baz, of course, saunters over to his usual spot beside Dev, looking bored and perfect.  Not a hair out of place. Bastard.

Looking down at his plate, Simon wonders if he can fit three scones into his mouth at once.  He's managed two before, just to show Penny that he could.  Right now, he cares less about proving a point than he does overdosing on cherries and sugar.

“Honestly, Simon,” Penny frowns at him over her tea. “You’re going to choke one day, and the World of Mages will have lost its savior to baked goods.”

“You’d save me,” Simon says between bites.

At his other side, Agatha mutters something about manners.

Simon keeps his eyes trained on his plate of scones and crumbs. He hasn’t been able to look at Agatha all morning – not at the hair sweeping her shoulder, the fingers curled around her mug, the pink pout of her lips.  Her arm brushed his when they sat down, and he almost threw himself across the table.

(Because her hands are beautiful and small and perfect – but they’re not the ones he was imagining through his marathon of cold showers yesterday. He knows that now.)

Simon darts a look at Baz, just long enough to see him nodding at Nial, and then darts a look away.

(He wishes he didn’t.)

Simon wishes he didn’t sigh a hurricane of relief when Agatha leaves to finish her Magical Words homework, walking away without even a goodbye peck. His wishes don’t seem to do him much good.  Not when he needs them to.

 *

He looks up lust spells in the library, because he can’t bring himself to ask Penelope.  She’s too smart. He’d open his mouth, turn bright red, and she’d somehow just know he spent the night with his archenemy’s lips wrapped around his cock.

Well. Maybe not in that much detail, but—

Lust spells, he reads, are rare, and not entirely effective.  Those which have been successfully cast rely upon mutual attraction between both parties, given the…

Simon’s eyes keep moving, stop reading.

Penelope’s voice rolls through his head like ribbon, unspooling his thoughts. _“Can you imagine, if magic could take away a wizard’s will like that? Magic doesn’t rape, Simon.”_

* * *

 Simon Snow is sitting on his bed when he returns to their room, several hours later than usual, several more rats later than usual, all because he’d figured that Snow would take the free time to hide beneath his covers. Respected their implied mutual agreement to never talk about the events of the previous night again. Never talk again, quite possibly.

But, sock-clad feet flexing and un-flexing against the floor, Simon jerks a look up at the open door, and remains planted atop the wrong bed.

“Careful, Snow,” he sneers.  “I could tell your girlfriend you’re sexually harassing me.  Ruin all your dreams of storybook endings and sunny beach weddings and disgustingly blonde children.”

Snow should stammer furious and pink at that.  He doesn’t.  “No, you couldn’t.”

And—that’s technically true.  Baz wouldn’t breathe a word of their lust spell induced hysteria, even if the Mage threatened him with fucking thumbscrews, but his roommate wasn’t supposed to have reason enough to know it.

Baz’s stomach squirms with confusion, so he arches an eyebrow. An easy fallback of condescension. “Couldn’t I?”

A wide, flailing shrug.  “No girlfriend.”

He tries to sneer again, tries to snap something cutting, finds only abbreviated breath.

And then Simon is standing, walking towards him, stretching a hand out towards him, and pausing a flinch away.  “Not much of a relationship, if we’d both rather pull you, is it.”

Baz falters into Simon’s grip, grips him right back.

 _Oh_.

 *

(Baz tells sanity to fuck off, and kisses Simon first this time.)

*


End file.
